


The Werewolves of Liechtenstein

by Netgirl_y2k



Category: The Checquy Files - Daniel O'Malley
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10040321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/pseuds/Netgirl_y2k
Summary: "Is this or is this not a seduction?""Not a good one.""Are you kidding? I got to punch Thatcher's ghost in the face."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a bonus fic for booasaur, after a very generous donation to the fandomtrumpshate auction.

_ Fraternization _

_There isn't an official Checquy policy on relationships between co-workers. Much to the consternation of the human resources department there isn't even an unofficial policy. HR spends a lot of their time dealing with fallout from various failed romantic entanglements, because when people can do the sort of things some Checquy employees can do then that fallout can get... interesting._

_When she divorced from her Retainer husband Pawn Lillian McKenna dropped the temperature of Rutland to five degrees below that of the surrounding counties, confusing meteorologists from all over the country._

_Another complicating factor is that we all grow up together at the Estate, so it's pretty common for people to be utterly sick of the sight of everyone in their age group by the time they're thinking about settling down. Marriages between Checquy staff and civilians who can never, ever know what they do at the office are more common than you'd expect._

_Chevalier Eckhart had been married for a decade before his ability to manipulate metal manifested, luckily that's the sort of thing that can be hidden from a spouse with relative ease. But it's not just those whose powers are subtle and devious who marry outside the organisation; Pawn Andrew Hunter, whose skin is made of some kind of igneous rock, is married to a lovely woman who believes him to suffer from a rare skin disease; their three adorable, pink-cheeked children are, I assume, adopted._

_I have always rather envied people who managed to find love outside the Checquy. I never found the time, or, honestly, the confidence to look for it._

_While fraternizing with colleagues is not explicitly discouraged (especially not for those who are dismayed by the proportion of the British populace for whom the possession of a pair of boar-like tusks is an automatic 'swipe left') it gets a little more complicated if you're promoted through the ranks._

_If you rise to the Court then all the Pawns and Retainers immediately become your subordinates, and while getting involved with them is not technically against the rules (for more information I suggest reading the sections on Bishop Grantchester and why the flat above your office looks like it was decorated by Fabio) I always found the idea inappropriate._

_There's also nothing prohibiting members of the Court from becoming involved with one another (we used to have a Lord and Lady who were married; one evening they had a domestic disagreement that ended with the formation of a small chain of islands off the west coast of Scotland; the Checquy named these the Outer Hebrides and proceeded to pretend they'd always been there) but, well, if you've read this far I assume you've already met the rest of the Court..._

 

"Rook Thomas?"

Myfanwy closed Thomas' purple binder and looked up at her executive assistant. "Yes, Ingrid?"

"You may wish to head to the car now if you want to make it to Heathrow in time to meet Bishop Petoskey's flight. You know how the traffic can be at this time of day."

"What happened to that boy at the Estate?" Myfanwy asked. "The one who can manipulate the flow of traffic with his mind." Myfanwy swept the purple binder into her bag along with her tablet computer and an optimistic amount of paperwork.

"His powers don't work inside the M25 corridor."

"Well," huffed Myfanwy, "what good is that to anyone?"

Ingrid shooed Myfanwy towards the lift. "I've cancelled your meetings for the rest of the day, but if Chevalier Eckhart calls about the situation with the werewolves in Liechtenstein I'll put him through to your mobile. I've also booked your usual table for dinner."

"Ingrid?"

"Yes, Rook Thomas?'

"We're at the car now, and I have been walking _quite_ briskly, you can stop shooing me."

"Yes, Rook Thomas," said Ingrid, gently shooing her into the car.

*

The traffic _was_ terrible, so Myfanwy used the time to review the personnel files of some of the Pawns up for consideration to fill the vacant seats on the Court. 

Myfanwy's suggestion that at least one of the vacant positions should be filled by a non-powered Retainer - with the aim of making their secretaries, drivers, and bodyguards less keen to murder them - had been received about as well as a suggestion that they should all strip naked, rub bacon fat all over their bodies, and offer themselves to the werewolves of Liechtenstein would have been.

In the end the adverse traffic conditions didn't matter, because it turned out that being an important member of a top secret organisation dedicated to protecting Britain, nay the world, from the forces of the supernatural did not win you any special favours at Heathrow Airport.

Bishop Petoskey had been held up by a random baggage check and, lacking either a boarding pass or the fake id that identified her as a top civil servant from the Home Office, Myfanwy had been informed in no uncertain terms that she would have to wait for the American Bishop landside. 

Myfanwy settled down in an uncomfortable waiting area seat, and pulled the purple binder out of her bag. 

She had solved the mystery of her amnesia and was settling nicely into life as Myfanwy Thomas, Rook of the Checquy, but she still flicked through the purple binder now and then. Partly it was out of guilt; she was living Thomas' life, the least she could do was read the woman's words. More than that, Thomas had been a thorough little mouse, and not knowing what the woman who inherited her body would need to know, she had tried to write down _everything._

_ Sexuality _

_I am heterosexual._

_At least, I think I am. I never noticed myself feeling attracted to women, although I can't entirely discount the possibility that some kind of internalised misogyny was the reason why my teenaged self had a crush on Robert Gestalt while hating Eliza on sight._

_If you're not straight, I wonder if that would mean there was something latent in me, or only that you're a completely new person with your own sexuality? And if you are straight, I hope you haven't the same terrible taste in men as me. I mean, Gestalt, honestly..._

 

Myfanwy did actually appear to share Thomas' dodgy taste in men. She'd been attracted to Grantchester, even once she'd seen his taste in interior decoration, right up until he'd been revealed as a traitor to the Checquy and the architect of poor Thomas' downfall.

On the other hand, her overwhelming impression upon meeting Shantay had been that the woman looked like a Nubian Goddess, and that she hoped they could be friends forever, so her taste in women seemed to be pretty good.

"Myfanwy," called Shantay, having finally navigated passport control. Myfanwy stood and was immediately enveloped in the smell of Shantay's perfume and the American Bishop's hug. 

"I know Sofia Morales is a Bishop of the Croatoan and not my personal travel agent," said Shantay, in the flat tone of voice of someone who had been told as much by someone from HR. "But I really wish she was my personal travel agent."

"You look better than someone who's just flown across the Atlantic has any right to," Myfanwy assured her. 

It was true; Shantay's hair was clipped close to her skull, and her cheekbones could have cut glass. 

"I always knew I liked you," said Shantay, linking her arm through Myfanwy's. "Your place, then?"

*

Myfanwy had offered Shantay the use of her spare room. 

The hotel where the Checquy usually put up visiting dignitaries was currently being bugged to within an inch of its life; the Grafter delegation were not going to be able to flush a toilet without the Checquy knowing about it.

Shantay was in the shower freshening up after her flight, while Myfanwy was trying to tempt Wolfgang with a distressed looking lettuce leaf. Speaking of dinner...

She picked up her mobile and rang Ingrid. "You booked my usual table for dinner, right?"

"Yes, table for two at eight o'clock."

"I was thinking--" Myfanwy said, waggling the leaf temptingly beneath the rabbit's twitching nose "--that perhaps instead of my usual restaurant, we might try somewhere a little less workaday and a little more..."

"Intimate?" Ingrid suggested, businesslike. 

" _Ingrid,_ " said Myfanwy in mostly feigned scandalised tones.

"If I'm not being too bold," said Ingrid, "might I suggest that you wear the red dress the Greek woman made you buy."

"I'm hanging up now."

"I'll text you the details of your new reservation."

"Who was that?" asked Shantay, fresh and bright-eyed after her shower.

"Oh, Ingrid about dinner."

"Well, I hope we'll be eating better than your rabbit." 

Wolfgang had abandoned Myfanwy and her flagging lettuce leaf to hop over to Shantay, presumably in the hope of a carrot.

Myfanwy knew how he felt, albeit without the carrot. "Traitor," she accused his faithless little cottontail.

* 

The restaurant was Italian, candlelit, and romantic, so it was a shame that Myfanwy had spent most of dinner on the phone, talking about tax liabilities in Central European principalities.

Shantay ate gnocchi.

"Yes... yes... I'll have Ingrid send those records over first thing... Yes, okay... Thank you, Joshua."

Myfanwy hung up. "There are these werewolves in Liechtenstein," she explained apologetically.

"We have those back in the States. About a third of the people in Montana are werewolves." Shantay took a last bite of gnocchi and chewed thoughtfully. "Always the ones you'd least expect, too."

"Oh, the werewolves are no trouble during the full moon," said Myfanwy. "A couple of dog biscuits and a bit of ear scritching and they'll do anything for you. But in their human form they're all bankers and tax lawyers and unfortunately--"

"The ear scritchings just aren't cutting it?" Shantay suggested in a serious voice but with a shit-eating grin on her face.

"Chevalier Gubbins actually tried once." Myfanwy shuddered; she'd read the report. "The Checquy has significant holdings in Vaduz though, so after Gubbins died Chevalier Eckhart had to start spending more time over there."

The waiter had been hovering near by. "Would you like to see the dessert menu, ladies?"

"Sure," said Shantay, and when Myfanwy tipped her empty glass she grinned and added, "Another bottle of wine, too."

*

Myfanwy took a deep drink of merlot. "Listen," she said, "for honesty's sake, I should tell you that I like you. I think you're gorgeous and brilliant, and I wanted to tell you tonight before the summit with the Grafters starts and things get crazier than usual."

"This is a date," Shantay said, a smile playing about her mouth.

"Well," said Myfanwy, "not a good one, obviously. So, for the record, and in case you hadn't noticed, I was trying to seduce you."

"I hadn't noticed, actually." Shantay's grin got wider; she leaned back in seat and regarded Myfanwy over her glass of wine. "It does explain the red dress; which is a good look on you, by the way."

Shantay always was easy on the eyes, and in her sleek black she probably could have stopped traffic. Myfanwy was about to tell her as much, when her mobile started to ring again.

"Hold that thought," she told Shantay, picking up. 

Myfanwy listened, hummed thoughtfully, and agreed that yes, something absolutely ought to be done. 

"Well," she told Shantay, "a portrait of Margaret Thatcher in Number 10 has come to life and is currently strangling the life out of the Prime Minister."

Shantay stood and offered her hand to Myfanwy. " _Now_ it's a seduction," she said with a grin.

*

"So that was the British PM?" asked Shantay. 

The two women were fumbling their way through Myfanwy's office in the dark, heading up to the flat to spend what was left of the night. The idea of crossing London from Downing Street back to Myfanwy's house at half past three was just _too_ awful.

"Yep."

"Is she any cuddlier when she hasn't just been nearly murdered by Thatcher's ghost?"

"Nope." 

Myfanwy flipped the light switch in the flat, which was decorated in black leather and sexual harassment chic. She toed off her shoes, because it was hard to balance on shag carpet in heels.

Shantay let out a whistle. "See, if you'd brought me here I'd have known I was being seduced."

Myfanwy rolled her eyes. "The previous occupant furnished the place. Treason was the least of Bishop Grantchester's sins."

"Holy shit, is that a circular bed?" Shantay grabbed Myfanwy's hand and tugged her towards it.

Myfanwy curled her toes into the shag carpet. "Wait."

"What?" said Shantay, her tone gently teasing. "Is this or is this not a seduction, Rook Thomas?"

"I know, but I kind of sprung my feelings on you, and that was after I spent most of dinner talking about tax havens."

"Not to me, at least," said Shantay.

"Still," said Myfanwy, "this wasn't exactly the smoothest seduction there's ever been." 

"Are you kidding?" said Shantay, stepping close and pushing a strand of Myfanwy's mousy hair behind her ear. "I got to punch Thatcher's ghost."

"And you didn't even appreciate it properly," said Myfanwy with a slow smile. "Not your fault, I suppose. You are American."

"Damn straight," said Shantay, tugging Myfanwy into a kiss. Shantay was the taller of them and Myfanwy slid her palm up the back of the other woman's neck, Shantay stroked her thumb over the soft skin behind Myfanwy's ear.

Myfanwy's head went fuzzy then, and she wasn't quite sure how they ended up on Grantchester's ridiculous bed, still kissing.

"Myfanwy?" said Shantay, as Myfanwy was kissing along her jaw to just beneath her ear.

"Mmm?" Myfanwy's response was muffled against Shantay's skin.

"Did you know that there's a mirror on your ceiling?"

Myfanwy groaned and dropped her forehead down onto Shantay's shoulder.

"Bloody _Conrad_ ," she said, rolling onto her back. "Well, that killed the mood."

"What kind of Rook are you? Giving up at the first hurdle." Shantay straddled Myfanwy's hips; her black dress was riding temptingly up her thighs, and she had a wicked look on her face. "Close your eyes," she ordered, and Myfanwy couldn't help but comply.

*

Myfanwy had read somewhere that the best lovers were those who could laugh together.

So, when Shantay was kissing up Myfanwy's inner thigh, and Myfanwy threw her arm back and accidently knocked the button that started the bed _revolving_ , and they both burst into hysterics, well, that probably meant good things... 

*

Myfanwy never slept particularly well in the bedroom above the office. She was haunted by thoughts of what Grantchester might have done in this bed, and that apparently hadn't changed even now that two of the things that had been well and truly _done_ in this bed were Myfanwy and Shantay themselves.

And so it was that at not quite six Myfanwy was already awake and reading over more personnel files when Shantay stretched and yawned.

"Shan?"

"Mmm?" Shantay mumbled sleepily.

"You don't fancy being a Bishop of the Checquy, do you?"

"Well, I think it would be kind of a lateral move, career wise." Shantay rolled over and slid her knee over Myfanwy's hip. "But I'll let you try to convince me."

*

Ingrid didn't comment when Myfanwy descended from the private flat along with Shantay first thing in the morning. 

She stoically kept not commenting when Myfanwy asked for coffee, and for a Retainer to be sent to her house to pick up a change of clothes for Bishop Petoskey.

"Ingrid?"

"Yes, Rook Thomas?"

"Stop smirking."

"Of course, Rook Thomas." 

*

The Grafters were late to the first reception between their delegation and the Checquy; in their defence, the security procedures for newcomers to Apex House were cruel and unusual.

The walls of the reception hall were decorated with portraits of long dead Checquy courtiers and current British royals.

Myfanwy was playing the 'guess which member of the royal family is a changeling?' game with Shantay to pass the time.

"It's him, right?" said Shantay, gesturing towards a portrait of a square-jawed, ginger young chap. "It has to be; he's the only normal looking one." 

Before Myfanwy could confirm or deny that the suspiciously chin-possessing prince was a fairy plant Lady Farrier drifted over to them.

"Rook Thomas" she said in greeting. "Bishop Petoskey, I hope you will convey our good wishes to the Court of the Croatoan."

"Of course," said Shantay. "My colleagues all send their regards."

"I was going to welcome you last night," Lady Farrier said, and with a meaningful look at Myfanwy added, "but it didn't seem to be an entirely convenient time."

Myfanwy blushed furiously; she envied Shantay her dark skin, if the American Bishop was blushing it wasn't obvious to the eye.

"Well," said Lady Farrier cheerfully, "whatever it takes to pry Myfanwy away from her desk at night." 

Shantay looked torn between smugness and awkwardness; ultimately she plumped for smug. 

"Although, I must confess, Rook Thomas," Lady Farrier continued, as though Shantay wasn't standing _right there_ , "I wouldn't really have though she was your type..."

Lady Farrier strolled away to wait for a Belgian to ambush, leaving Myfanwy wanting to bury her face in her hands.

"Was that homophobic or was it racist?" Shantay asked.

"It's because you're American," said Myfanwy.

*

_ The Americans (addendum five) _

_There is no reason a member of the Checquy couldn't have a relationship with someone in the Croatoan; aside from the distance, and the fact that they're all American..._

 

Good to know, thought Myfanwy, closing the purple binder and setting it aside.

"What are you reading?" Shantay asked, joining Myfanwy on the couch with two glasses of wine.

"Just double checking some small print," Myfanwy said, accepting her glass, and leaning into Shantay; Wolfgang the rabbit hopped merrily around their bare feet.


End file.
